


Unwrapped

by thursday_kat



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Con Artists, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursday_kat/pseuds/thursday_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. What was supposed to be a simple con gets complicated when Arthur shows up unexpectedly and gets hired as a stripper.  Eames is confused and Arthur is better than he has any right to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwrapped

**Author's Note:**

> Based on exceedingly lovely artwork by . You can see it [here: Arthur is a Stripper](http://hellpenguin.livejournal.com/45919.html)
> 
> OMG this turned out kind of ridiculous. And it's lacking in any serious smut. Woe. But it was super fun to write and I have to thank hellpenguin for giving me such a great piece of art to work with :D Also, this has far more dialogue than anything I have ever written! Go me!

Dream was a gentleman's club. Buried off the strip in Vegas, it was the sort of place that catered to the rich hedonist in everyone. Dim lights, the heady sent of leather and spice, the belly deep thump of music that rumbled beneath everything; it was opulent and extravagant to the extreme. Dream aimed to be the sort of place that other strip joints tried (and failed) to emulate. 

It wasn’t Eames’ scene, insomuch as Eames had a scene, but beggars (or thieves rather) couldn’t be choosers and where the mark went, Eames followed. 

Xavier was talking loudly into his ear as the bouncer saluted Xavier and waved them through. “I can’t believe you’ve been in Vegas for weeks and never made it here! It’s a wonderful club, if I do say so myself. The staff,” he waved his hand expansively in his faux european way, “the dancers. You are in for a treat my friend.”

“Can’t wait,” Eames said, flashing Xavier his most charming smile. Dream was Xavier’s club, the jewel in his club crown. Eames had gotten the whirlwind tour of all of Xavier’s clubs over the past few weeks and he could only hope that Dream, with it’s old school vibe and luxurious touches, would be classier than the meat markets he’d already suffered through.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, conning the Don’s half brother. ‘We’ll just get him where it counts,’ he’d told Arthur, ‘I can lure him in and then we’ll just siphon the cash out. Easy.’ The job was far more complicated than that, of course, and it had taken Eames a good deal wheedling (and a few favors) to get Arthur on board, but he’d come around and now here Eames was, playing sidekick to a mafioso. A bottom shelf mafioso but a one all the same. The Don gave him the clubs to keep him busy and out of the way.

This was a job that Eames should have been able to do it in his sleep but s it turned out, Xavier was quite a bit smarter than they’d thought. Wine ‘em, dine ‘em, make off with their financials, it was nothing Eames hadn’t done a hundred times before. But in the six weeks he’d spent working his way into Xavier’s inner circle (being excessively charming was part of his job description), Eames hadn’t been within spitting distance of anything useful. The man might think far too highly of himself and his own importance, but he was careful. 

Xavier was also still talking, nattering on like they were BFF’s or something. It was another mark against him, in Eames book. ‘Likes to hear the sound of his own voice,’ he wrote in his inner log, ‘Keep him talking.’

“There’s this kid, name’s Nash, and he’s terrific,” Xavier said, obviously still talking about the club, “I’ve had a few private dances from him, if you know what I mean. He’s good stuff.”

“Yeah?” Eames said, feigning interest as he took in the club. He didn’t see much (leather, leather, dark wood, was that velvet?) before his eye was caught by an all too familiar figure standing at the bar.

It didn’t matter that the lights were dim or that the air was hazy with smoke. There was only one person Eames knew who stood like that, somehow relaxed and ready for a fight at the same time, like he’d either melt against you or break your fucking arm. It happened to be one of Eames favorite looks on him. If it wasn’t for the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Dream, or anywhere near Vegas for that matter, Eames would stalk up to him and see which of those reactions he got. 

“Oh,” Xavier said, looking at what (who) had caught Eames’ attention, “Jones mentioned that he’d hired a new kid. He’s quite the looker isn’t he. A little fierce maybe but still, very attractive. Shall we have him join us?” 

As if Eames needed one more reason to be irritated by Xavier. Not only was he tighter than a clam about his secrets, not only did he have terrible taste in club design, but he had to pick up on Eames interest in Arthur as well. And Arthur, Eames narrowed his eyes, was obviously waiting to be snared.

Arthur wasn’t standing so much as lounging at the bar, resplendent in a dark suit that skimmed the neat lines of his body. His head was tipped down as though he was watching the patrons covertly and he was talking all the while with the girl who was mixing drinks at the bar. His hair was slicked back, something he only did when he wanted to look older, and his dark hair gleamed in the low light. The style brought out the line of his cheekbones and the hard curve of his jaw and Eames (damn it) could hardly tear his eyes away.

“We’ll get the waiter to send him over,” Xavier said, “It’s always good to have a chat with the new kids.”

Xavier steered them towards the main floor of Dream, picking up the thread of conversation he’d been on and filling Eames in on all the dancers. Despite the expensive interior decorating, Dream was really just another strip joint, albeit one that employed only male dancers. Eames knew that Xavier visited this club multiple times a month, theoretically for business but, as Xavier’d said, what was the point in owning something if you couldn’t enjoy it? 

They settled at a table off to the left of the stage. It was close enough to enjoy the show, tucked against the curved wood railing that separated the dance theater (Xavier’s words) from the bar, but far enough away that they could converse easily. The lights were even dimmer down at the tables, though the stage in front of them was lit by dozens of globe lights that lined the edge of the stage. There was the requisite stripper’s pole off to the right hand side and red velvet curtains that framed the the dancer currently on stage.

Said dancer was an aggressively muscular man and,as Eames watched, he stripped down to a tiny thong and writhed enthusiastically to the nondescript club music that was pumping out of the speakers. Several woman in the crowd whistled.

“Andy’s a nice kid; he’s got quite a few fans.” Xavier said, “Myself included.” This didn’t surprise Eames. In the weeks that Eames had spent with Xavier he’d learned enough to recognize that Xavier had yet to meet a body he didn’t like. 

“He is rather Adonis like, isn’t he,” Eames remarked, “Hard work, maintaining that kind of physique.” Not Eames cup of tea, as it were, but he did have very nice muscles. 

“Mmm, well, we pay for the gym membership, so he’d better. Oh, Franco,” Xavier smiled beatifically at the young waiter who had appeared at their table, “How are you this evening.” 

“Mr. Xavier! I’m so sorry, Bobby didn’t tell anyone that you’d arrived. What can I get for you this evening? Just drinks or would you prefer companionship as well?”

Eames observed the two men as they conversed. Like all the other employees Eames had seen at Dream Franco was attractive, handsome in a delicate way that verged on pretty. His dark hair fell across his eyes, catching on his eyelashes and when he smiled a dimple cut deep into his right cheek. He looked like he could model on the side for some brand like Dunhill. For a brief moment, Eames imagined Franco and Arthur side by side, dark hair, dark eyes, dimples; it was enough to make a man swoon.

He got his chance to see just that when Franco left their table (Eames had pulled himself out of his musing long enough to order a scotch) and wove his way through the tables, heading for the bar. Eames had to turn his head to watch him, which was hardly subtle, but he was in a strip club and ogling the staff was both normal and expected. He was rewarded for his effort with the sight Franco leaning in to talk to Arthur.

His Arthur, who could stand next to the undeniably attractive Franco and not come off the worse for it. 

The last time he’d seen Arthur the man had been drinking coffee in the kitchen, his hair tousled and his cheek creased from sleep. He’d been wearing a pair of Eames’ boxers at the time (the ones with the lipstick red kisses on them that his brother had sent him as a gag gift) and arguing with Eames about the job. 

The Arthur from that day was so far removed from this one that it was like they were two different people. It was kind of thrilling and Eames watched Arthur walk towards them with a fluttery sense of anticipation in his stomach. It was strange to see someone he knew so well playing at being someone else entirely. Eames couldn’t help wondering if this was how Arthur felt, every time he watched Eames slip into a role for a con.

"Mr. Xavier, sir,"  Arthur bowed slightly as he reached their table, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” With fluid grace he served them their drinks before settling down into a high backed chair opposite.  "How are you both this evening?"  His lashes fluttered down, casting a dark curve against his cheek as his mouth curved up into a smile that was somehow both naive and beguiling.  He was dressed beautifully though formally. In distinct contrast to the stripper on stage he was wearing a lovely dark gray suit, complete with waistcoat, and the french cuffs of his shirt were pinned with knotted cufflinks that glittered faintly in the low light.  He looked absolutely stunning. 

"How delightful,” Xavier said, “Jones has finally managed to hire someone exquisitely professional." Xavier reached across the space separating them and plucked an imaginary bit of lint from Arthur’s jacket.  “Most of the kids he brings in need quite a bit of work but…” He looked at Arthur, prompting.

“Thomas, sir.”

“Lovely. Yes, you, Thomas, seem to be the rare diamond among the lot.”

Arthur tipped his chin down, seemingly embarrassed by the praise. Eames wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to keep himself from laughing; he knew he often had the desire to do so when faced with Xavier’s eccentricities.

“So, Thomas, tell me, is this your first job?” Xavier’s smile was benevolent but Eames didn’t miss the predatory edge. 

Sitting up straighter and tugging on his cuffs Arthur offered the man a half smile that almost made Eames laugh aloud.  The little fuck had stolen that smile from him.  On Eames that smile looked flirtatious and slightly sneaky, like he had a secret he could be persueded to share if only you made the right offer. (He knew this because he’d used it successfully on multiple jobs.)  On Arthur it looked bashful, coltish in a way, and he gave the impression of an innocent just on the verge of breaking free and running wild.  It was so completely the opposite of who Arthur was it was almost comical. Xavier ate it up.

"That depends on what you’d like to hear."  Arthur flashed the half smile again, the barest hint of dimples creasing his cheeks. “Which answer would you like better?”

Xavier guffawed, his already loud and rolling laugh even louder than usual, almost booming over the throb of music in the club.  "I love it! Who talks like that? Jones better appreciate you, he just might get a raise out of hiring you."  

As the two men played at flirtation, trading innuendo and knife sharp smiles, Eames sipped his scotch and tried to figure out what the hell Arthur was up to. Arthur was the information guy of their little two man outfit. The role of stripper should have fit him about as well as the role of amiable rodeo clown, which was to say, not at all unless said clown was an anal retentive info freak with a scarily intense love for knives. By his fourth scotch Eames’ mind had turned whimsical, and he was imagining that this Arthur was from the future, sent back in time to allow Eames to live out his fantasy of having tantric sex with two Arthurs.

"He's a darling boy," Xavier proclaimed many hours (and many whiskeys later), "I can see why he's caught your fancy."

"My fancy? Hardly," Eames said, "He's pretty enough, but not my type."

Swaying, Xavier scoffed and threw his arms out wildly.  "Admit it, you couldn't keep your eyes off of him. I’ve never seen you so preoccupied."

Eames acknowledged the truth of that with a smirk.  "I never said he wasn't compelling."  Steering Xavier off the curb and towards the waiting car, he made his voice light and flippant.  "But I like a man with a bit more depth."

"Well of course you do, you know me after all."  Smiling his widest, Xavier threw his arm over Eames shoulder and tipped them into the car.  

***

It took Eames three days to get Arthur’s hiring records from Jones at Dream (thanks in no small part to Ariadne, the very lovely and exceedingly devious bartender) and the information turned out to be meager at best.  There was an address that Eames was pretty sure belonged to a screen printing shop, a facebook page that was completely useless and a picture in the yearbook of a high school that Eames knew for a fact Arthur had never attended.   His supposed job record was hilariously falsified (who listed their volunteer time in a kissing booth as relevent employment?) and when he dialed Arthur’s cell, the number came up disconnected. 

The only clue he got came in the form of an email that said, simply, “Eye on the prize. I’ve got a new bidder.” When he tried to send a reply email it was bounced back.

Sadly, all of the time he could have spent stalking Arthur was taken over by Xavier.  Xavier, who had to be placated and entertained and made to feel comfortable enough so that Eames could rob him blind.

It was only a matter of time before they ended up at Dream again. Once inside Xavier shooed off his bodyguards as usual and headed straight towards the bar. 

"Is our charming friend here?" Xavier asked Ariadne, who was once more manning the bar,  "What was his name again?"

"Thomas"  Eames murmured, ignoring the amused look Ariadne sent him.  "Are you still interested?"

"Me?  No, no, but for you, my friend, definitely.  Your reaction to him was vastly entertaining."

"I believe he’s working tonight. Should I send him your way, sir?" Ariadne asked, "I’ll send your drinks with him."

"Perfect!" Xavier said, grinning, "We’ll be in the Blue Room."

Inwardly, Eames groaned.   Xavier rarely used the private rooms in any of his clubs, preferring to show his importance by seeing and being seen.  If he was requesting one it meant that he was up to something and Eames had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with him and the "delightfully charming" Arthur.

The old club feel that permeated the rest of club was continued in the small private rooms and Eames was immensley glad that if he was going to be subjected to Xavier’s whims, it wouldn’t be in a place that had some weird Vegas theme. Vegas, Eames was deciding, was often over the top, even for him, which was ironic because he _liked_ crazy, over the top things. If all he had to deal with was artfully worn leather chairs and velvet wallpaper then he would count his blessings.

"Thomas," Xavier exclaimed upon Arthur’s arrival, drinks tray balanced on his left hand, "How lovely to see you my darling boy.  Come in, come in, set those drinks down. You remember my friend, Charles."

“Certainly,” Arthur said, reaching out to shake Xavier’s hand and then Eames’. “Ariadne mentioned that you wanted to see me?” Eames was amused to note that he was glittering under the lights. It was quite the contrast, the serious suit and the glitter that dusted his hair and face, but it didn’t look quite as ridiculous as it should have. Eames reasoned that the atmosphere of the club lent itself to handsome men in glitter.

“Ah, yes, well Jones mentioned that you hadn’t auditioned yet. Normally, I’d leave it up to him to put you through your paces but, since we’re here…” Xavier shot Eames a look full of barely repressed amusement before curling his arm around Eames’ shoulders and giving him a light shake, “I do believe Charles would be sad to miss out on it.”

"Sorry?"  Arthur was definitely confused, his eyebrows creasing together and the corners of his mouth pulling in.  Eames had seen that expression a hundred time before, usually when Arthur thought that someone was taking the piss. It usually ended poorly. Arthur didn’t lash out though, just rubbed a hand over his face then frowned at the sheen of glitter that sparkled on his palm. Eames got the impression that the glitter hadn’t been Arthur’s idea.

Xavier waved Arthur towards the small raised stage that ran along the wall across from them.  "Up you get, let’s see if the body matches the wit." 

Eames almost smiled.  Arthur was definitely well out of his comfort zone by now (which Eames imagined was anything not involving databases, knives or gourmet food) and Eames, bastard that he was, was just a little bit happy about it. ‘Serves him right,’ he thought, ‘for getting a job as a stripper. What was he thinking?’ He watched Arthur step uncertainly onto the stage with a great deal of amusement and just a tiny sliver of trepidation. 

On the stage Arthur just stood there, hands at his side, looking more like a mannequin than a dancer as the weird mash up of dance-pop and electronica thumped around them. 

"Come on now," Xavier said, "It’s just the two of us here." 

“I don’t know,” Eames said, pushing himself off the couch and out of Xavier's heavy armed embrace, “Maybe he’s just shy.”  

While Xavier debated that idea Eames approached the stage, leaning in close and touching Arthur for the first time in what felt like years. He ran a hand down the lapel of Arthur’s jacket and toyed with the buttons, enjoying the way the tension in Arthur’s body ratcheted skywards.  "Maybe he just needs some incentives.”  

Crowding Arthur’s personal space Eames whispered into his ear. “I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he hissed. Aware of Xavier’s eyes on them, he blew lightly in Arthur’s ear, knowing from experience that it would make him shiver. Arthur didn’t disappoint and Xavier, from his vantage point on the couch, laughed.

There was the faintest of flush on the high lines of Arthur's cheekbones though it was hard to see beneath the glitter that dusted his face.  Grinning, Eames tugged on his buttons one last time and whispered, “Show time,” before returning to his place on the couch.  For the span of several heartbeats time seemed to slow, the music a bass heavy throb that rumbled around them.  The flush on Arthur's cheek's darkened enough that Eames could see it from where he sat and even though Arthur was avoiding his eyes, Eames breath caught in anticipation.  Finally, just when Eames though Arthur was going to chicken out, he started.

The button on his jacket was slowly unbuttoned, the jacket itself removed with so little ceremony Arthur may well have been undressing in his bedroom. It wasn't seductive at all, certainly nothing that belonged on the stage of a club like Dream.  Eames almost groaned aloud. If Arthur didn’t start moving to the music, if he didn’t shake the stiffness from his body, Xavier was going to get suspicious. 

And then it was like a switch clicked in Arthur's head.  The very faintest of smiles turned up the corners of his mouth, more a smirk than anything else, and he took a deep breath before catching Eames’ eye.  Arthur hadn't looked at him, not really, since he’d shown up playing ‘Thomas’.  But this time he was looking directly at Eames as he tugged his tie free and began to slowly unbutton the long row of buttons on his waistcoat, every flick of his fingers revealing more of the gleaming white shirt beneath it.  

Next to him, Xavier made a pleased sound.  "That's better," he said to Eames, his own gaze flicking between Eames’ face and the stage as he settled in for the show.  

Arthur, the tricky minx, was slipping out of his now unbuttoned waistcoat with the sort of slinkyness that Eames had never seen in a male stripper let alone Arthur.  It could have looked contrived, it should have been false and coquettish, but somehow Arthur was able to pull it off.  He moved like he was unwrapping himself, peeling each layer from his skin and taunting them with the unknown that lay beneath.

Eames, who had been planning on needling Arthur throughout the entire thing, found that all of his comments had dried in his mouth.  Watching that lean body move sent him back a decade, reminded him of Cobb's girlfriend, the one who'd slunk around the place, slumming it with the lot of them with her continental accent and her expensive perfume.  She had danced around their living room once, some sultry French song playing tinnily out of the boomboxes speakers, body moving like a fluid, amorphous thing. Arthur was projecting her now, every movement graceful, confident in the knowledge that all eyes were on him.

Greedily, Eames watched Arthur slip the cufflinks free from his shirt and slip them into his pocket.  Every button that was slipped through it's hole bared a bit more pale skin and Eames’ attention flitted between the smooth skin that was being revealed and Arthur's face, where his eyes were half close, his head tipped back, his tongue flicking out occasionally to moisten his lips.

When the shirt finally dropped from his shoulders and slide sinuously down his arms Eames almost couldn't keep his seat.  Arthur was thin but finely muscled and he practically shone with something Eames would label ‘animal magnetism’.  It was nearly primal. On his bare chest a tattoo shadowed a spot just above his heart and another curved along the familiar arc of his rib cage. All Eames could think about was pressing his mouth against them, exploring all the parts of Arthur that he hadn’t touched in months and reacquainting himself with every ridge of rib, every silvery scar. Absent mindedly he rubbed a hand across his own chest, touching the tattoo that was the twin of Arthur’s.

He almost groaned aloud when Arthur's graceful hands started working at the button and zipper of his trousers.  There were no gyrations of his hips, no psuedo sex, just the hard jut of his hip bones and the sway of his body. He was all long legs and muscled thighs, and the delicious weight of his dick, surely half hard, was not so well hidden by the tight black boxers he wore. His eyes were still locked on Eames’

“Beautiful,” Xavier breathed next to him. When Eames tore his eyes away from Arthur’s and glanced at Xavier he saw that he was staring, eyes rapt and mouth slightly opened. Eames wished he could blindfold him, or grab Arthur and haul him out of there, con be damned, because Arthur was his alone to stare at and Xavier didn’t deserve the privilege. 

Instead he agreed with Xavier, letting his appreciation for Arthur seep into his words. Arthur’s blushed deepened and he turned as the song neared it’s ending, showing them the long line of his back and the fine curve of his ass. Eames wanted to touch so badly, wanted to lick up the groove of Arthur’s spine and lose himself.

“Fuck,” he said, as the music morphed into a more frenetic dance beat. On stage, Arthur was gathering his clothing, smiling at the words of praise Xavier was heaping on him as he tried (unsuccessfully) to wipe the glitter off his cheeks. “Fuck,” he said again, because it was worth repeating. 

***

“Hey Ariadne,” Eames said, “Is Thomas around?” Dream was quiet for once and, other than a bare handful of patrons out by the stage, the place was empty.

“You’re out of luck, he’s not scheduled for today.” She sent him a cheeky smile from across the beer taps, “Is it true that he danced better than Nash? Franco said that Jones said that Xavier said he was.”

“Don’t know,” Eames said, plucking an olive from the bowl on the counter, “Xavier seemed pleased.”

“Mr. Xavier is always pleased when he has some pretty thing he can pull under his wing.” 

Eames slanted her a look. Her voice held an edge of something bitter but her face was all smooth politeness. They looked at one another for a moment before she cracked another smile. “Hey, he’s an asshole, but he pays well. Thomas will figure that out soon enough.”

“So you don’t know where he is then?”

“Thomas?” Ariadne laughed, “No I don’t, Mr. Pushy. A word of warning, though I doubt you need it. I’d watch it if Mr. Xavier is after him. He’s not so good about sharing.”

That was exactly what Eames was afraid of. Sighing, he waved goodbye, ignoring her knowing grin. 

 

***

The weeks rolled on and Eames kept on playing lapdog to Xavier’s benevolent master. More often than not they spent their evenings in the clubs, making the rounds so Xavier could ‘keep his fingers on the pulse of his empire’. Every hand he shook, every back he slapped, was catalogued and collated, allowing Eames to connect the dots of the sycophants that orbited around Xavier. Had Arthur been where he was supposed to be (curled up in the apartment in Toronto) Eames would have sent the information along to him for analysis. 

Eames could do it himself but having a second set of eyes to look things over was always the better option. Especially when those eyes were Arthur’s. (He had a preternatural way with raw data.) Unfortunately, Ariadne’s prediction of Xavier’s behavior proved true and Eames almost never saw Arthur. Xavier seemed to have latched onto him and he apparently saw Eames as competition. 

“The boys a tease,” he heard Xavier grousing over the phone one day, “Says he’s got a jealous lover…” Eames, who had been studying the cards in his hand at the time, was instantly alert. He listened carefully, not letting on that he was eavesdropping on Xavier’s conversation. He needn't have bothered. They were in the back room of Xavier’s favorite restaurant, playing a casual game of poker and relaxing after a heavy lunch. 

“I don’t know, I’ve offered him everything. Well, no, not that. But yeah, the usual.” Xavier was pacing now.

Dean-o, one of Xavier’s burly bodyguards snorted as he tossed a few bills into the pot in the middle of the table. “Xavier still chasing that stripper,” he said in a whisper, obviously smart enough to keep his voice down. “Boy’s crazy if you ask me.”

“Which boy?” Johnny asked, “The boy who’s not willing to be bought or the one turning himself inside out for a stripper?” 

Dean-o whacked Johnny on the head, “Show some respect or you’ll find yourself working on grounds with Anders.”

Johnny shut up with a pout and started organizing the money in front of himself instead. 

“This happen often?” Eames was curious; in the three months he’d been in the con Xavier hadn’t appeared to be interested in anything more than one night stands and easy lays. When drunk he had a tendency to hit on anything that moved but Eames certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of any permanent attachments.

“Every couple of years or so. He broke up with the most recent just before you joined up. Rare for him to want to jump right in again.” Dean-o slanted him a look. “Thought you were aiming for the position.”

“I am pretty enough for it,” Eames agreed, laughing, “But I’ve seen Thomas dance. I’ve got no chance in hell.”

***  
Eames walked into the Top Hat, Xavier’s low brow version of Dream, nodding to the people he knew. There were a lot of serious faces and the rocks that had appeared in his stomach when Xavier had called turned to lead. He’d been summoned, rather tersely, and he had spent the entire drive over trying to figure out what was going on. He and Xavier had gone out on the town last night and they’d enjoyed a lot of beers and had a rollickin’ good time. Xavier’d made mention of a few deals that were going down but he hadn’t seemed concerned. As far as Eames knew, his standing as “friend” was strong and his position as “confidante” was getting more stable by the day.

So it was with no small amount of trepidation that entered Xavier’s office, waved in by an unsmiling Dean-o. 

“Xavier.” Eames offered him an easy smile even as his eyes took in the room. He’d been to Xavier’s office any number of times but never before had the atmosphere been so stilted and heavy. There were no laughing girls or Cristal this time around. Perched behind the enormous mahogany desk, Xavier was stoney faced. He didn’t acknowledge Eames presence, his eyes focused and unmoving on the computer screen before him. Each beat of silence seemed louder in the room.

Though his gut was telling him to cut and run, Eames sauntered to the desk and dropped down into a chair opposite, examining his nails as he waited for whatever shit storm was to come.

“Charles,” Xavier said finally, “How kind of you to join me. You’ll forgive me, I hope, for calling you in with such short notice, I’ve been busy with some security issues.”

“Sounds serious,” he said, smooth as ice, “Is there anything I can do to help?” It felt as though his heart was trying to beat out of his chest but Eames kept his breathing slow and steady, doing his best to counteract the panic that wanted to take hold. 

“Don’t play dumb, you asshole.” Xavier stood, his movements jerky as his neck turned a mottled red. He threw a stack of papers at Eames. “Those have your signature all over them.”

Dumbfounded, Eames flipped through the papers, seeing any number of forged checks filled out to one Mr. Charles Ellis, signed by one Xavier Perchon. Eames almost laughed. They were some of the weakest forgeries he’d ever seen; Xavier’s name bared only the slightest resemblance to the man’s real signature. (He should know, he’d practiced for weeks to get it perfect.)

“Xavier, surely you don’t think that I had anything to do with these. When could I have? I’ve been with you every day.”

“I’m sure you have your ways,” Xavier spat, “I hope you know what you’re in for now.” 

“Look,” Eames said, neatening the papers before setting them down on Xavier’s desk, “This is just a mistake. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it.” He smiled at Xavier again, channeling all the guilelessness and innocence into it that he could. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be working. 

“You fuckin’ bastard!” Xavier yelled, losing control, his voice booming even in the spaciousness of the office, “The money is already in your fucking bank account. Don’t think I haven’t checked up on it!” 

Eames felt his stomach drop. He was good on his feet and quick to think himself out of any situation (he’d gotten himself out of worse situations that this) but he was fucking furious that someone had framed him for something he hadn’t yet done. He’d put up with Xavier’s pawing and dubious wit, sat through nearly unbearable social events with twits that didn’t have two brain cells to rub together, and now it was all fucked up. ‘I’m going to murder someone,’ he decided, ‘someone has to pay for this.’

He let that anger seep into his smile and mentally pulled on his most dangerous persona. Tsking, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk until he was just an arms length away from Xavier. “Well, the cat’s out of the bag then,” Eames purred, pulling on a pair of black gloves he kept for just such occasions, “You’ve caught me in the act. All my research indicates that you’re a spineless worm, though, so I don’t think you’ll give me too much trouble.”

“Thomas,” Xavair called out, his eyes wide and his voice wobbling a little. The man might like to imagine himself a next generation mafioso, but he was little more than a wart of the back of far bigger toads. “Fuck. Thomas, get out here.”

Eames watched with a sense of inevitability as Arthur strode into the room, looking lithe and fuckable and more than a little deadly. 

“Xavier? Can I help you?” He blatantly ignored Eames. 

“Get Dean-o in here! No, no, call the Don instead.” He had dug a gun out of his desk and was now pointing at Eames, though considering how much it was wavering around, Eames doubted he could manage to do any sort of damage with it. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that sir,” Arthur looked almost apologetic, “That would complicate things unnecessarily.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about? You work for me! I want you to call him right fucking now, you piece of shit, or I’m taking that Caddie back.”

Arthur shrugged and pulled a cell from his pocket. Xavier sneered, though his shaking arm lessened the impact. “You’re going to be sorry you swindled me, Charles, I’m going to make sure of it.” 

Eames rolled his eyes. Xavier apparently thought he was in some made-for-TV mafia miniseries or something. He wondered if he’d learned his dialogue from The Sopranos. He’d obviously never learned the lesson about monologuing. It took almost no effort at all to disarm Xavier and have him face down on the desk with his arms twisted behind his back. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Xavier snarled, panting because Eames was crushing him into the desk, “Thomas, get this fucker off of me.”

Arthur and Eames traded glances. Eames had no doubt that Arthur had a knife or two tucked onto his person, he just hoped that none of them were meant for him.

“Well, Thomas?” Eames said, “Are you gonna come help our mutual friend?”

Arthur shrugged and dropped the phone, crushing it beneath his heel before walking over to the desk. “I don’t think I will, Charles.” He gave Eames the barest flash of a smile, the slightest hint of dimples. “He seems to have a hard time understanding the word ‘no’.”

Beneath him, Eames could feel Xavier spluttering out threats, each more ridiculous than the last. For his part, Eames was beginning to enjoy himself. “Really? How fascinating.”

“Plus he’s an asshole.” Arthur said, calm as a cucumber despite the fact that he was pulling wire from his jacket. “Did you know that he’s been stealing from the Family?” 

“Did he frame me to hide his own guilt? That hardly seems smart.” Eames told Xavier, giving him a pitying look, “Would you like him in the chair then?”

“It’s as good a place as any,” Arthur said.

“What?” Xavier was squawking again, at a loss and quite obviously in over his head. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? When the Don hears about this you’re going regret it and then you’re going to be dead! Dean-o, get your ass in here.”

“Rather a broken record, isn’t he?” Eames said, forcing Xavier into the chair. Xavier was nominally bigger but any muscles he’d had had long since gone to fat so it wasn’t even close to a fair fight. “Can I hope that you have some tape on you, darling?”

There was no way that Eames could miss the eye roll at that distance. He had no tape but handed Eames his hankerchief instead.

“Ah, better.” Eames said once Xavier had a mouth full of cloth. “I don’t know if I could have listened to another round of threats.”

Arthur hummed his agreement, mind turned towards securing Xavier to the chair. The wire was thin and it cut into Xavier’s wrist, encouraging him to stop struggling quickly. Once the man was firmly lashed to the chair Arthur turned and made his way back to the door. 

“Leaving so soon then?” Not that Eames would let him, but Arthur tended to be hard to pin down.

“Hardly,” he said, pulling a briefcase from the side room he’d entered from. Dropping the case on the desk top, he popped it open. It was filled with sheaves of paper. “If you don’t mind,” Arthur said, passing a stack of them over to Eames, “Could you take care of these.”

“Impressive,” Eames said, staring down at some exceptionally good forgeries. Plucking a pen from Xavier’s desk, he started scrawling the man’s signature.

“I learned from the best.” Arthur gave him that half smile again before focusing on Xavier’s computer. 

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Xavier’s muffled protests and pleading no more than white noise. The documents Eames was signing were the basis for a paper trail that would ruin Xavier and, in all probability, tear apart his whole empire. Very little of it was actually untrue, however, and Eames didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt over ruining the man.

“Have I ever told you how attractive you are when you’re devious?,” Eames asked when he was nearly done with his pile of paper. “Because really, you’re rather stunning.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Arthur said, “I appreciate it. Now keep signing.”

“You take the romance out of everything.” He gave Arthur his best puppy dog eyes, the ones he knew Arthur hated, “All business and no play make you a dull boy.”

“I’ll show you a dull boy,” Arthur said under his breath. 

“Exciting,” Eames said, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

Eames couldn’t see Arthur’s face but he knew with utmost certainty that he was probably starting to get that delightful crease between his eyebrows. He might have mouthed along with Arthur’s ‘just shut up and work would you,’ but no one could prove anything. Other than Xavier, who looked like he was going to hyperventilate himself into unconciousness any minute so he didn’t really count.

Ten minutes and thirty forged signatures later, Arthur was wiping the desk down and then they just walked out.

***

Dean-o was suspiciously absent when they left Xavier’s office. When Eames raised an eyebrow, Arthur just smirked. “I hope you didn’t kill him,” Eames said under his breath, “I actually like Dean-o.”

“I don’t always resort to violence,” Arthur said back, equally quiet. The club was sparsely populated and they wove around the small clusters of patrons, ignoring the raucous calls of several bachelor parties and trying to be as invisible as two men known by the employees could be.

“I hope we aren’t going to have to shoot our way out of here,” Eames said as they neared the front door, “And why are we leaving out the front anyway.”

“I may have sent Dean on a wild goose chase out back. And give me some credit.”

Before Eames could respond they were on the sidewalk outside of the Top Hat and he was listening to Arthur tell Andrew the bouncer that Mr. Xavier was in a very important meeting and that, short of the building burning down, he wasn’t to be disturbed. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Eames said as they walked down the street as casually as possible, ready to rake Arthur over the coals.

“Later,” Arthur said, “I’ll see you in Windsor.” He slipped Eames a thin leather wallet, “The usual’s in there. See you in three.”

And then he stepped into a vast crowd of college kids and vanished. 

***

The hotel in Windsor was adequate at best; tucked into one of the grungier parts of the city, it had little to recommend it. Still, it had been the first place they’d rented together and it held some special memories (only one of which involved violence).

Eames arrived long after dark, having survived what was possibly the most convoluted travel itinerary Arthur had ever made for him. Those months courting Xavier’s favor had apparently made him soft because he was jet lagged beyond belief and he hadn’t even left the continent.

The room was silent but he had no doubt that Arthur was awake and lurking.

“If you ever send me through Atlanta again, I’m never going to do that wonderful thing with my tongue again.”

“You do something wonderful with you tongue?” Arthur slipped out from behind the bathroom door, the blade of his knife flashing briefly before it disappeared into it’s ankle sheath. “Other than tell atrocious lies that is.”

They stared at one another across the room. It had been almost five months since they’d been alone as themselves, and there was always a breaking in period. Usually they fucked to speed the process along but Eames was surprised to discover that he was a little too angry to make things that easy.

“So,” he said instead, letting the anger he’d been storing since Arthur’s impromptu arrival at Dream spill out. “You want to tell me what the fuck that all was.” 

“Improvisation.” Arthur said, like that explained everything. He looked about as haggard as Eames felt and though Eames felt a twinge of something in the region of his heart, he steadfastly ignored it.

“That was quite some improvisation. I didn’t know you had it in you, love.” 

Arthur shrugged. “One of my contacts rolled over and blabbed to the Don. I could either let you walk into a trap or I could make a counter offer.” He smiled then, just the slightest quirk of his mouth. “I decided that I kind of like having you around.” He looked nervous, which was all sorts of wrong because Arthur didn’t do nervous. He did logical robot and king of collating and nutter with a knife but nervous had never made the list of attributes Eames would assign him. 

Sighing, Eames dropped his bag. If there was ever time for a good bracing cup of tea, it was now. Thank the lords for long stay hotels and the tiny kitchenettes they possessed. “Still doesn’t explain why you didn’t bother to let me know, does it.” He dropped the kettle on the burner, “I nearly had a fuckin’ heart attack when I saw you at Dream.”

“I was as surprised as you were. All my research indicated that he went to Dream on the first and third Tuesdays of the month. Apparently, he wanted to impress you.”

“That was kind of the point,” Eames pointed out, “How long were you in town before I saw you?”

Arthur shrugged again. “A few days. The call came from my contact the week after you left. I had to scramble to get things sorted before someone let Xavier know that you weren’t sniffing around him because of his stunning social life and his high flying contacts.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t let me know right away. What if I hadn’t played along? Your cryptic little note was a little late in coming.”

“I know you too well, Eames,” Arthur smiled at him, a genuine smile this time, “I’ve never seen you falter yet.” He trailed off but his eyes never left Eames’.

‘The little shit,’ Eames thought, ‘did it on purpose. Didn’t even try to give me a heads up.’ “Were you hoping I would fuck it up then? I didn’t realize that you were so cruel.”

“What? No, it was, I just.” He paused and took a deep breath, “It was a chance to see how quickly you could read the situation and react.”

“So you were just helping me prove my brilliance? Risky move.” The tea kettle screamed and Eames busied himself making tea. What he really wanted was a stiff drink, a hot shower and a long nap but tea was as good a place to start as any. 

“Maybe, but trust goes both ways, and I trusted you to keep us both safe.” He didn’t drop his gaze, just watched Eames, unflinching. “Competence is attractive.”

It was, Eames realized with a start, possibly the closest thing to a confession of love he had ever gotten from Arthur. He had a feeling that trust, in Arthur’s book, was a whole lot more telling than love. Eames would argue that they could be one and the same. Should be one and the same. He was still mad at Arthur for fucking about with a job that could have gone (even more) sideways but his anger was fizzling out. They hadn’t even come close to dying, which was not as rare an event as it should be, and he was too tired to maintain his current trajectory.

“Did you do those terrible forgeries?,” he asked, changing the subject slightly, “I know that you can’t have done the good ones.”

Arthur relaxed, the harsh tension that had tightened his shoulders loosening until his body resting fully against the door frame. “I know that you have very little faith in my forging skills but I hope that you’d give me enough credit to know that I don’t fuck around with important things like that.” At Eames’ raised eyebrow he gave him a rueful grin, “I hired it out.”

Laughing, Eames set his cup and the counter and cornered Arthur against the door. “Well, you are a terrible forger; can’t blame a man for thinking the worst. Do I even want to know?” 

Arthur was playing with the hem of Eames’ shirt, twisting it between his fingers and rubbing the fabric together. “It’s a long story and it’ll keep. I’d rather be doing other things.”

Burying his nose in Arthur’s hair, Eames took a deep breath and felt the tension of the past few days ease. Here felt right, felt safe and even annoyed and angry, there was no where else he’d rather be. They stood like that for awhile, breathing each other in as Arthur’s fingers ventured beyond the edge of his shirt and began flirting with his waistband.

“You smell like airplane,” Arthur said into his collar, “You should shower.”

“Why Arthur, are you trying to get me naked? How delightfully crass.” 

He paid for that comment with a sharp pinch to his side. “Don’t make me regret rescuing you.”

“Was that what that was?” Eames nipped at Arthur’s mouth, “And here I’ve forgotten to thank you.” Pressing forward, he crowded Arthur further against the door, “Allow me to rectify that.”

“Mmm,” Arthur purred, palming Eames’ dick, “I love it when you used big words.”

With a growl Eames kissed Arthur’s condescending mouth and they both ceased talking for a considerable amount of time.

***

“Will you dance for me?” Eames was lying on the bed in just his boxers (the ones with the lipstick kisses), still damp from the shower and staring openly at Arthur.

“That depends,” Arthur looked at him from beneath the soft wave of his hair, “What’s in it for me.”

“Mmm, the best sex you’ve ever had.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And maybe a trip to Paris.”

“We just had sex,” Arthur said, pointing out the obvious as only he could, “And we were going to Paris anyway. You remember, the whole running from the mob thing.”

“Then do it to sooth my curiosity. I want proof that that night wasn’t a fluke.” 

Arthur looked affronted for a moment (being damp and well fucked didn’t lessen the impact at all) and then he laughed. “I wondered when you were going to bring that up.” Turning to the closet he pulled a garment bag from it’s depths. Eames watched with anticipation as he carefully unwrapped the same gorgeous dark gray suit he’d worn at Dream all those long weeks ago.

Watching Arthur get dressed turned out to be almost as sensual as watching Arthur get undressed. Ever piece of clothing was put on with excessive care and Arthur stroked along the lines of his body as he slide each item on. Out of the club and off the job Eames could more fully appreciate the way the trousers clung to Arthur’s hips and caressed the curve of his ass. As he buttoned himself into the thin cotton shirt and then the waistcoat, Eames could remember the feel of those ribs beneath his fingertips and the slightly raised ridges of the tattoos beneath his lips.

When he was fully dressed, and Eames was fully hard, Arthur waved him off the bed. “Let’s go get breakfast, I’m starving.”

“What? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I never agreed to your terms, Mr. Eames.” 

“I never negotiate with terrorists,” Eames said, grumbling to himself even as he pulled on jeans and an old t-shirt. His grumbling stopped when Arthur emerged from the bathroom, hair shiny and slicked back. His cock jerked back to attention. “You are terrible,” he said, “The biggest tease ever.”

Arthur looked himself over in the mirror, tugging at his sleeves and fusing with the line of his shoulder. “Isn’t the anticipation wonderful?”

“No,” Eames said, “It’s torture. And you’re missing the glitter. It was a lovely look, by the way.”

“That was Ariadne’s doing. Glitter is an affront to humanity.” 

They bickered about the merits (or lack thereof) of glitter all the way down the stairs and, if anyone thought it was odd that two men were seriously arguing about glitter and it’s glue like tendencies, they were kind enough to not stare. 

Over coffee and omelets at a sleepy greasy spoon the nitty gritty details of the counter con came out. The Don had indeed hired Arthur though he thought he was hiring Arthur to protect Xavier from a con man. Arthur had convinced him to keep the job quiet so as not to scare the criminal. 

“He’s not as good a researcher as you are,” Eames pointed out, “There are people out there that know of our relationship.”

“I may have laid down some false leads,” Arthur said around a mouthful of potato. “Certain people might be thinking that we had a terrible and nasty breakup and that I was out for revenge.”

Eames almost choked on his coffee. “How many times has Cobb called you then?” 

“Only half a dozen. He would probably still be calling but I think I pissed him off when I told him he could give me relationship advice when he figured out his own.” 

Laughing, Eames saluted Arthur with his coffee cup. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

***

Arthur did dance for him later though, true to his word, he kept Eames in rapt anticipation all day long. Breakfast had led to changing hotels and from there to research and then dinner and it wasn’t until after dark that Eames finally got to see Arthur take that lovely suit off.

There were no shining lights this time and no stage or techno-pop or glitter. It was just the soft sounds of something in a foreign tongue lilting from Arthur’s laptop and Arthur, dancing for Eames alone. 

Arthur barely made it out of his trousers before Eames was pulling him down on the bed and kissing him breathless. 

“Someday, you will tell me where you learned how to do that,” he said against Arthur’s throat even later still, when they were curled up in the wreck of their bed, “And then I will rent you out and we will make an easy million.”

“You could try,” Arthur agreed easily, “But it turns out that I’m only interested in dancing for you.”

“Well that’s just lovely,” Eames said, “As it turns out that I’m not terribly interested in having you dance for other people either.”

“That’s settled then,” Arthur said around a yawn, “Now go to sleep, Mr. Eames, we’ve got a long day ahead and Paris awaits.”

***


End file.
